Free Mattress Actress by Annika Cleeve Page B

understand how she hated work with a passion, but could screw six men a night and be satisfied. At the time I put it down to not fully understanding sex yet. But now I think for her it was a power trip. They were all men of her choosing, so in a sense they worked for her, satisfying her every whim. She was not obliged to bow to their every demand, but they had to try to please her, after all, she wasn’t charging then, she was doing them a favour.
    During this period of homelessness, I didn’t contact my brothers or Ben—I knew they would only worry about me. I saw that as my job but I was petrified, worrying every night about where I would sleep, if there a way out of this sleepless cycle and when I’d once again have my own home, a safe haven.
    I decided to take a client up on his most generous offer of accommodation at the motel he owned in return for occasional sex and light duties. I didn’t generally like seeing clients outside of work—first rule of the industry, keep work and home separate—but I didn’t see too many other options. Of course Tracy came along for the ride. She assured me she would help with the light duties, which included pool cleaning, room service delivery, helping out at the reception desk and cleaning the cocktail bar after it had shut.
    John, the motel owner, only invited me to his room once during my entire stay. He was a true gentleman. Some evenings we would just sit talking in the bar until the sun came up. Like everyone else, he grew to hate Tracy, but he was too polite to make me ask her to leave.

Kings Cross
     
     
    I hadn’t been to Kings Cross as yet, so Tracy and I ventured in one evening. Music, restaurants, bright lights and exotic smells filled all my senses.
    We were taking in the sights when a doorman invited us to come in and see a show. I had no interest in seeing the show, why would I want to stare at naked women? One couldn’t help getting the feeling that to tell him so would prove futile. Tracy on the other hand was very keen to see inside this sleazy little establishment. While trying to barter down the entry fee with one of the doormen, a more senior-looking gentleman interrupted, shouting something in Greek, and within seconds the doorman spun on his heels and was gone.
    ‘Are you girls models? If not, you should be.’
    Like I was going to fall for that tired old line. But the man wasn’t going to be dissuaded. Tracy seemed mesmerised by him. She had a thing for second-hand-car salesman types so I hung around as well, purely in a big sister kind of way. After three hours of free food, drink and entertainment with the man, Spiro, Tracy had agreed to work in his club. Against my better judgement I agreed to become their new door girl primarily so that I could stay close to Tracy. But I can’t pretend that the Cross didn’t possess some appeal.
    Tracy lasted all of two nights and I can’t blame her for leaving so quickly. Her job was completely belittling. Her uniform consisted of a tacky G-string, bra and four-inch heels. As if that wasn’t bad enough, she had to walk around the audience as they ogled the strippers and ask them if they were looking for a good time. One out of every ten propositions would pay off. The payment was on a sliding scale, or basically up to the girl’s discretion; for example, if he was clearly a tourist or was well-dressed, prices started at $200. Of course the money conversations took place in a private room and if the potential client thought the fee was too high, the girls were always more than happy to compromise. If the client looked like a deadbeat, it was just a straight-up $40 fee. For all their effort the girls took home fifty per cent. Once the girls had hit the nightly target of $1000, anything they made after that was one hundred per cent theirs. Mind you, I never saw that happen.
    My job was to collect all the girls’ money, write down what they made and buzz them when their time was up. It was also my